


Colour Me Gone for You

by varjohaltija



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Clint's questionable fashion sense, First time - not quite, Getting Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:22:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24055882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/varjohaltija/pseuds/varjohaltija
Summary: First times are usually memorable - Clint's (almost) the first time with Phil certainly is.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson
Comments: 33
Kudos: 90





	Colour Me Gone for You

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you lovely, lovely[ Lisa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ralkana) for checking this for the most glaring grammar mistakes and improving the wording. All the remaining mistakes are on me.

“Well, this is something else, alright.” 

It takes a few seconds for Clint to get back from the “I cannot fucking believe Coulson is going to blow me.” -haze and register the amused tone in the voice near his crotch. 

“Huh?” He says, because that’s sadly the wittiest thing he can formulate with the lonely drop of blood that’s still circulating in his brain.

He opens his eyes and lifts his head from where he let it lean against the office door and glances down where Coulson is (and Clint still isn’t quite believing his luck) kneeling and staring right back at him with the biggest goddamn grin on his face. 

“I mean, I knew you were a colourful guy, but…” Coulson sniggers, one hand letting go of the waistband of Clint’s briefs he’d just pulled down after making them soaking wet with precum by nuzzling Clint through the fabric. He gestures vaguely towards Clint’s erection, shoulders shaking fitfully, and bites his lip in order not to laugh. (He shouldn’t really look that sexy doing it.)

Clint tries not to get offended. He’s convinced his junk is nothing short (heh) of normal. He’s just about to bend forward to take a better look over the half-removed and rucked up tactical gear, when he remembers: _Aww, pubes, no._

He blames Kate fucking Bishop. Clint would do only half of all the stupid shit he does if he didn’t have such reckless friends. Honest.

~ ~ ~ ~

Okay, if confronted, Kate would say she never meant him to do it for realz. She had mocked his ‘purple everything’ -school of fashion ( _Um, pot, kettle, purple?_ ) and just as a joke had ordered him a kit to dye his pubic hair to match his wardrobe. (The internet is a hellhole and shouldn’t be available to drunk people, what else is there to say?) They’d had a few uncomfortable laughs over it when the product had arrived and left it at that. However, earlier this week, when Clint came home after too few hours of decent sleep and too many pints of beer, and saw the package in the pile of junk on the table, the thought that had preceded both the brilliant inventions and the epic disasters throughout human history, entered his head: ' _Well, why the fuck not?’_

Clint is - contrary to what could be judged by his accident-prone cooking - good with chemicals, because improvised explosives are pretty handy sometimes and blowing one-self up is not. Therefore the process of bleaching and dyeing wasn’t that complex, in his opinion. And indeed he managed the procedure without a hitch, save the few splotches of dye on the bathroom surfaces, nbd. And the result was actually cool. Not that he would ever tell Kate. As far as she's concerned, the kit was thrown into the garbage, okay? The next day, he had added to the design by trimming the area somewhat fletchling-shaped. You know, that’s his Arrow with the shaft and all. Ready to shoot into the target. Whangggg! 

Giggling, he had taken a pic and had almost sent it to Kate. But on more careful thought, that’s, like… ewww, gross. So no. He’d thought it’s a great shame he had nobody he could share his fantastic nether region with without appearing like a huge creep or a very aggressive flirt. Or getting himself gelded - because that’s what Nat would probably do for unsolicited dickpics. Oh well... 

And then he pretty much forgot about it.

~ ~ ~ ~

Fast forward to this moment, where he is standing with his “Berrylicious Pubes” and the man he has lusted after for an embarrassingly long time. Who is now nearly choking on laughter at his feet. After seeing Clint in his full glory.

A lesser man would be devastated. And admittedly, this wasn’t quite the way Clint had fantasized their intimate encounter going. 

Not that he had fantasized that Coulson, after a run-of-the-mill mission and a dinky shrapnel-graze on Clint’s temple, would drop his cool demeanor and kiss Clint, either. 

"A-and it's - _wheeze -_ like an a-arrow! Hitting the…" the rest of Coulson's epiphany is lost in a fit of giggles. He is holding his stomach, folding over like he was hit.

 _At least he understands my humour_ , Clint consoles himself. 

Unexpected circumstances hadn’t stopped Clint from answering the surprising kiss with all his pent up sexual energy and just going with the flow.

And they will not stop him now. 

Despite the seriously, uh, deflated mood, he waits patiently for Coulson to calm down, while carefully tucking himself in and adjusting the rest of his wardrobe. Instead of disappointed, he feels weirdly privileged to see the famously unflappable senior agent show such a loss of composure. It seems even more intimate than the blowjob he was about to get. And he cannot help thinking that near hysterical, red faced and snorting Coulson is actually pretty damn cute. Understanding sloshes inside him - terrifying and wonderful. He loves this dork. 

Soon enough Coulson pulls himself together with a couple of hiccuppy false starts. He picks a handkerchief from his pocket, wipes his face and turns his eyes to Clint, looking sheepish.

“I’m so sorry, I just… it’s been an… eventful day… or two,” he says, climbing up to his feet and dusting his trousers. His shirt is still wrinkled from where Clint was grabbing it, loosened tie and few opened buttons revealing way too much of the enticing skin, and a promise of the hairy chest Clint is now itching to feel.

"You could say that," Clint says, a hand reaching out for Coulson, but withdrawing, uncertain of its welcome. The moment has gone, awkwardness is creeping in. Whatever made Coulson change from a handler patching up a sniper to a man caressing another man's face, turned them from professional colleagues into two human beings letting nature take over… it's slipping away. He doesn't know what Coulson really wants. But he knows that he himself wants too much to engage in meaningless sex.

Coulson glimpses the hesitant gesture, swallows heavily. His shoulders slump minutely.

“I like you, I really do, and now I probably blew it…” he says.

 _Sadly you didn’t quite blow anything…_ Clint is about to say, almost turning this all into a joke as an automatic defence mechanism. He’s stopped by the worry he hears in the other man’s voice and the look on his face.

Coulson seems uncertain, even sad, and Clint absolutely has to do something about that, the safety of his stupid fucking heart be damned. He grabs Coulson, and pulls the unresisting man close to kiss him.

Their first kiss had been an adrenaline-fueled explosion, almost violent in its physicality and Clint remembers thinking that it was the best kiss he’d ever had. Scratch that, because this kiss is much better. Even though they’ve cooled down, or maybe just because, he can feel it in his whole being. Clint is quite certain he’s never been kissed like this - so gently, yet purposefully. Coulson lifts his hand to Clint’s face, careful of the injury. His thumb caresses Clint's jawline, sending shivers in its wake. There is no question whether he wants the same things as Clint.

They both let out a tiny gasp when they detach, like neither of them can quite process all that the kiss revealed. 

Coulson smiles dopily, staring at the tip of Clint’s nose, eyes crossing, and it takes an obvious effort for him to straighten his gaze. Clint realizes that Coulson’s been up much longer than he has, only taking an occasional break during the last couple of days. Which, now that he thinks of it, explains a lot: Starting the whole caressing and kissing thing and breaking down laughing… and… yeah, Coulson’s eyes are drooping slightly too. It makes him look so soft, so vulnerable, and Clint is suddenly filled with a fierce need to take care of Coulson, to keep him safe. He has felt protective of his handler for a long time, but now he wants to wash and feed him and tuck him safely into bed and stand guard over his sleep.

And maybe Clint is also sleep-deprived and having his defences down, because he forgets to be scared.

“Sir, I’d like to… I’d like to take you home," he says. "Just to sleep!" he adds hastily. 

Coulson chuckles and nods. “That sounds like a _great_ idea.” He pauses and frowns. “Phil.”

“Um?” 

“Call me Phil. Please.”

“Phil," Clint says, heart fluttering like a hummingbird, and presses a quick kiss on Phil's cheek, making him blush - which is as adorable as it is surprising - and smile contently.

As they walk to the door, Clint holding Phil's hand and leading the way, Phil mutters:

"...but I do hope there will be some target practice in the morning." 

They are both giggling like kids the whole way to the taxi.


End file.
